Kennedy Square eBook

Beckoning the old woman away from the bedroom door
and into the far corner of the small hall, Harry unfolded
to her as much of his plans for the next day as he
thought she ought to know. Early in the morning
—­before his uncle was astir—­he
would betake himself to Kennedy Square; ascertain
from Pawson whether his uncle’s rooms were still
unoccupied, and if such were the case—­and
St. George be unable to walk—­would pick
him up bodily, wrap him in blankets, carry him in his
own arms downstairs, place him in a carriage, and
drive him to his former home where he would again
pick him up and lay him in his own bed: This would
be better than a hundred doctors—­he had
tried it himself when he was down with fever and knew.
Aunt Jemima was to go ahead and see that these preparations
were carried out. Should Alec be able to bring
his mother to Kennedy Square in the morning, as he
had instructed him to do, then there would indeed
be somebody on hand who could nurse him even better
than Jemima; should his mother not be there, Jemima
would take her place. Nothing of all this, he
charged her, was to be told St. George until the hour
of departure. To dwell upon the intended move
might overexcite him. Then, when everything was
ready—­his linen, etc., arranged—­(Jemima
was also to look after this)—­he would whisk
him off and make him comfortable in his own bed.
He would, of course, now that his uncle wished it,
keep secret his retreat; although why St. George Wilmot
Temple, Esq., or any other gentleman of his standing,
should object to being taken care of by his own servants
was a thing he could not understand: Pawson,
of course, need not know—­nor should any
outside person—­not even Gadgem if he came
nosing around. To these he would merely say that
Mr. Temple had seen fit to leave home and that Mr.
Temple had seen fit to return again: that was
quite enough for attorneys and collectors. To
all the others he would keep his counsel, until St.
George himself made confession, which he was pretty
sure he would do at the first opportunity.

This decided upon he bade Jemima good-night, gave
her explicit directions to call him, should his uncle
awake (her own room opened out of St. George’s)
spread his blanket in the cramped hall outside the
sick man’s door—­he had not roughed
it on shipboard and in the wilderness all these years
without knowing something of the soft side of a plank—­and
throwing his heavy ship’s coat over him fell
fast asleep.

CHAPTER XXVII

When the first glimmer of the gray dawn stole through
the small window at the end of the narrow hall, and
laid its chilled fingers on Harry’s upturned
face, it found him still asleep. His ride to Moorlands
and back—­his muscles unused for months
to the exercise—­had tired him. The
trials of the day, too, those with his father and his
Uncle George, had tired him the more—­and
so he had slept on as a child sleeps—­as
a perfectly healthy man sleeps—­both mind
and body drinking in the ozone of a new courage and
a new hope.